


Miami

by ashley_ingenious



Series: States of Being [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Boyd-centric, Gen, Guns, Mentions of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-04
Updated: 2016-11-04
Packaged: 2018-08-29 01:12:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8469997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashley_ingenious/pseuds/ashley_ingenious
Summary: Eight months after Matt runs off, Chris Argent finds him





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is longer than I thought itd be and I actively shortened it.

Seemed like everything had turned out alright, from where Boyd was standing.

Sure, Daehler had robbed Stilinski blind and ran off to God knows where but, everybody'd seen that coming a mile away. The Stilinski kid was rubber, he bounced back. And he had Derek now, which, Boyd couldn't understand how that wasn't awkward. But they made it work. He'd seen them, laughing in the grocery store, arms around each other. Kadie's brow was furrowed as she tried to push the grocery cart, even though she couldn't quite see over the top yet.

She'd looked just like Erica.

So, it'd been the better part of a year, and Boyd figured it'd all worked out okay, when Chris Argent came strolling into his job at the post office.

"You're off work for the next three days," he said as he approached the counter, both hands curling into the formica countertop.

Boyd blinked at him, looking pointedly around the job he was still very much working.

Chris just blinked back. "I've talked to Phil about it. You'll be hearing from him soon. When he lets you out, you pack a bag, maybe two days worth of clothes, and you head to my house. You know where it is?"

Boyd blinked again. The Argent house was the biggest one in town, ever since the Hale house burned down. Everyone knew where it was. You could probably see it from space.

Chris nodded. "I'll be expecting you."

He turned to leave, big black boots scuffing up the floors that Boyd had just spent thirty minutes mopping. Seriously, there was still a wet floor sign at the door.

Sighing, he walked moved to the back cupboard to get the mop back out, and ran into his boss.

"Vernon!" Phil said, and Boyd didn't roll his eyes. He didn't. "Just the man I was looking for! You've been looking a little under the weather lately," he. Had. _Not_. "Why don't you take a couple days off? I can handle it around here." The older man chuckled, looking around the empty building. "Not exactly a hub of activity, is it?"

It wasn't, most times. They had their busy season, just after Thanksgiving when people started sending gifts out and getting them back in. But it was February now, so the rush had died down a while back. There really wasn't much to do.

Still.

"I'm fine to work," he said.

Phil's eyes widened, like he wasn't expecting Boyd to speak. Which, frankly, was unfair. He _talked_. Sometimes. To a few people.

"I'm sure you are, but I've taken you off the schedule all the same. Consider it a late Christmas present."

Boyd arched an eyebrow. He'd gotten a twenty five dollar gift card to the coffee shop for Christmas.

"Early birthday?" Phil tried again. His birthday was in July.

The man sighed. "Just go home, Vernon."

\--

Boyd's apartment was a small studio over the town's laundromat. It got noisy sometimes, but the heat from the machines kept it warm, which he appreciated.

He sat on his bed for a minute, wondering what the hell he was supposed to do with three days off, before sighing and pushing himself back up.

Moving slowly, he threw a few days worth of clothes into his oversized backpack from high school and headed out to see what Chris Argent wanted.

\--

"Good," Argent said, nodding as he pulled open the door, "you're here."

"I don't understand--"

"You ever been to Florida?" Chris continued, like he hadn't even spoken.

"I've never been anywhere."

Another sharp nod. Chris moved deeper into the house, and there wasn't much Boyd could do except follow. They turned a corner into a large living room. There were guns splayed all over the furniture.

Without thinking, Boyd took a step back.

Chris didn't notice. "We're going to Miami," he said, offhand, stuffing really large guns into a really large black duffle bag.

"I don't think I should.." Boyd started, still taking small steps backwards. He'd never actually seen a gun before.

"He was a tricky bastard to find, definitely more luck than skill, but I've finally got eyes on him." Chris continued, again, as if Boyd hadn't even spoken. Now, though, he was curious.

"Who?"

"Matt Daehler."

That brought Boyd up short. "You think I'm going with you to Florida with a bunch of guns over Stilinski's love life?!"

Chris looked up at him, hands frozen on the guns. "The man tried to steal your daughter's college fund."

Boyd's heart stopped. It was stupid. Obviously people knew but no one, not even Stiles, no one had ever said anything.

"I don't know what you're…"

 

Chris sighed, dropping the guns into the bag. "Cut the shit, son."

"I _don't_. I--"

"Look. You and the Reyes girl had a baby. That's damn near common knowledge. Then you foisted her off on Stiles. And Erica at least had the good grace to leave. But you? You've just been here, watching Stiles do all your heavy lifting for seven years."

He moved closer to Boyd, gesturing back at the guns. "But Stiles can't handle this right now, and I need backup. So today, you're gonna cut the shit. Today, you're gonna do some damn parenting."

\--

The car ride to Sacramento was quiet. It consisted mostly of Boyd saying:

"Isn't…I don't think you can take these on an airplane?" Gesturing to the two duffle bags full of guns in the backseat.

And Chris snorted and assuring him that they weren't flying commercial.

"You ever flown on a private jet?" The older man asked.

"I've never flown anything."

Chris laughed. 'It'll spoil you for anything else."

And that was it.

Unfortunately, (luckily?) not flying anything before meant Boyd didn't know he was scared of the damn thing till it started moving.

\--

In the end, it was easy. They crashed overnight in a shitty motel room, and in the morning, Chris took him down the hall and popped a lock on a room door, letting them both in.

He toured the room slowly, mostly booze bottles, condom wrappers, there was some takeout rotting in the wastebasket. The do not disturb sign on the door meant housekeeping wouldn't be bothering them.

Chris pulled the chair out from the desk in the corner, dragging it in between the two twin beds, facing the door. He sat down.

Boyd shifted. "What am I supposed to?"

"You're muscle son. Just stand there. Cross your arms if you're nervous. It'll make you look bigger."

Boyd crossed them. "How do we know when he's coming? We're just gonna stand here, posed for however long?"

Chris sighed, glanced at his phone. "GPS says he's three minutes out."

Boyd sighed, but stood a little straighter.

When they could hear someone lumbering down the hallway, Chris reached into his pocket and slid on a pair of black leather gloves. Boyd wondered for a second if he should have gloves? This was technically a crime. Had he touched anything?

But then the door opened and it was too late. It was showtime.

"Matthew," Chris said coldly, steepling his leather clad fingers. "Seems you and I need to have a conversation."

\--

When he got back to Beacon Hills he was different. He felt different. He'd flown on a private jet. He'd gone to Miami. He'd watched a grown man cry and beg for his life. Chris Argent had taught him how to shoot a gun.

He still had a day off work, and he couldn't even imagine putting that uniform back on, and being his old self. It was insane is what it was.

Wandering through town, he tried to get his head on straight. He was still Vernon Boyd. This was still his town. He still had a job to do.

He found himself outside of Hale Yes, and he saw Derek and Stiles inside with Kadie. Taking a breath, he popped his head in.

The bell over the door rang, so all three of them turned to look at him. "Uh," he started, unsure. "Stiles? Can I speak to you? Out here? For a second?"

Nodding, Stiles licked frosting off his fingers and headed for the door. Boyd saw the look that he and Derek shared, wondered again if he'd been a massive idiot for thinking everyone didn't know.

"What's up?" Stiles said, crossing his arms against the chill.

"I…is it okay if I…come around? I want to know her. I don't want her to know! I don't want to," he took a breath to organize his thoughts. "I don't want to disrupt her life. I just want to…help? I want to help you."

Stiles' eyes narrowed. "Why now?"

"She's my daughter, Stiles."

It was the wrong thing to say.

"No," Stiles said firmly, face going red. "No, she's not your daughter. She's _my_ daughter. How fucking dare you come here and demand things of me and then tell me she's your daughter? Since fucking when? You don't get to decide you're ready to be a father now and take her from me. That's not how this works."

Boyd took a step back, hands up in surrender. "You're right. She's yours. You're right. That wasn't what I meant. I just meant. I just want to take some responsibility. I just want to help. And then, maybe one day, we'll tell her. If that's okay with you?"

"She'll figure it out. She might've already figured it out. She knows she's black, Boyd, she's not an idiot. The last time she brought it up she thought Lucas Graeme was her father."

That stung something in Boyd, even though he knew he had no right to it.

"I just want to help," he repeated. 

Stiles nodded, seeming to deflate.

"Dinner, Thursday?" He asked, and Boyd nodded eagerly.

It was time to do some damn parenting.

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  Kadie


End file.
